


Revolution in the snow

by Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog



Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Christmas fic, Fluff, M/M, pre-bond movies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-15
Updated: 2012-12-15
Packaged: 2017-11-21 04:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/593369
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog/pseuds/Killer_Rabbit_of_Caerbannog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young pre-00 James is compromised on a mission, and Tiago has to clean up the mess. Schmoopy Christmas fluff all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Revolution in the snow

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies if the Romanian is (most likely) wrong, I had only the internet at my disposal. Also, this is set during the height of the Romanian Revolution of 1989.

Golden stars shining. So close, close enough to touch. Just stretch out his arms to the heavens and pluck those shining stars from the sky.

So very close.

Stars cannot be touched; they watch from on high, staring down upon the humans wriggling in the dust and laugh at their folly - for how can such broken, perverted creatures ever hope to reach the heavens?

He laughs, loud and broken like his body, the sharp sound cracking through the frigid air, echoing in his ears. The golden stars sharpen into a bright glow, casting a warm path across the snow. He hums ‘Stairway to Heaven’ under his breath, then laughs again, jostling his ribs and pain splits through him, swallows him whole.

The crunch of snow breaks through the darkness and he gasps awake, sucking in burning cold gulps of air. A shadow blots out the light from the village, crouching down to brush the snow from his air.

“ _Ce este asta? Nu-i asa nevoie de un doctor, iubit?_ ” purrs a familiar voice, pressing gently at his bloody scalp.

“Boss,” James moans, forgetting about the ‘no speaking english’ rule, forgetting himself, as he melts into those soothing fingers.

“ _Aveti nevoie de ajutor?_ ” There’s more crunching of snow and the stars turn dazzling - a torch in a terrified locals’ hand. “ _Vai! Nici o grija, Chem poliţia!_ ” The footsteps retreat, scrambling to get unwanted help.

Above him, Tiago groans. “Look at that. I may have to kill that man now.”

Annoyed at being ignored, James nips at the callused pads running over his jaw.

“I got that dirty fucker Petrescu,” he gloats at the blurry outline hovering over his face. “Cornered him over at the abandoned station near Tâncăbeşti. Took him out with a can of tomato soup.” James laughs, which predictably dissolves into coughing as what feels like his throat tears in two. He twists around in Tiago’s lap, spitting out blood onto the snow. A splash of red on a new canvas. He can’t help but to reach out and touch, skimming the unbroken surface. “Such a pretty painting, all lovely and pink.”

Tiago grabs his face, drags him around till they’re inches apart so he can peer into his eyes. “He drugged you?” he hisses as he stands, accent rumbling over the vowels to make it strangely ominous. “Must you always tempt me so?” he mutters, pulling and slinging James’ arms around his neck and ignoring his pained groansas he attempts to keep upright as they make their way back to the tiny village. “I expect I’ll have to give you a bath too. Oh my, you do test my patience, don’t you, my dear? Now I’ll have to go find your assailant and thank them for drugging you, as if I wasn’t busy enough as is.”

James scowls at the change of subject, refusing to be distracted not matter how nice Tiago sounded when he was angry.

“But I _did_ it, boss,” he pouts, and he knows how childish he sounds, but it isn’t in him to care. Hmmm, whatever he’d been slipped had been strong. Oh well. “Did it for you.”

Tiago snorts. “Don’t lie to me, _laucha_. Naughty boys who lie get punished.”

James smirks, letting his own weight shove him harder into Tiago’s side so he can twist his face up into the curve below his chin. “You’re just jealous Mummy doesn’t care when _I_ hack into her systems. Bet you’re _dying_ to know how I got her passwords too, but I’ll never tell. They’re my little s-e-c-r-e-t.”

They clatter into the tiny inn - the  _only_ inn - in Ciofliceni, Tiago waving away the owner’s concern in flawless Romanian. James is only slightly jealous. He tells him so, loudly, and in English, just to see Tiago’s mouth turn down in a delicious frown.

With some difficulty they get up the stairs, not helped by James enthusiastic attempts to suck a hickey into the tantalisingly close strip of bear neck. Tiago deposits James on the bed by the window, rubbing ruefully at the darkening mark below his left ear.

James rolls over onto his belly, whining at the pain but more interested in trying to undo Tiago’s pants. The senior agent lets him, more occupied with pulling over the phone. It’s only a few rings before the other line connects and a dry voice comes on, clipped but so achingly tied to home he wants back right then and there.

“Report,” M barks.

“It’s been confirmed. Ceaușescu will be heading for Târgovişte at 0500 after the helicopter’s been refuelled.”

There’s a pregnant pause as the sounds of a pen scratching over paper drift through the headset. Tiago feels himself relax at the sound, absently batting away James persistent fingers from his belt.

“Very good. The army will be alerted, and by then we’ll have restricted airspace if the army can be bothered doing their jobs. But follow them anyway; I want to make sure the police hand Ceaușescu over, no complications. Do you understand?”

Tiago glances at James, who’d finally given up on undoing the pants and was instead mouthing sloppily at the not uninterested bulge there. “Yes, Ma’am. But you should know…”

The sudden silence from the other end is as deafening as a gunshot. “What now?” she asks, her voice dangerously sharp. Any stiffness in his pants wilts and James makes a tiny noise of annoyance.

“It’s Bond. He took down Petrescu, but he got a little banged up in the process.”

“If he doesn’t come back in one piece, I’m holding you personally responsible,” she hisses coldly. “Don’t think I wouldn’t hand you to the wolves for this - the media’s already in a frenzy as is, the last thing I need right now is a dead recruit. Take care of him, Rodriguez, or you can be damn well sure you’ll live to regret it.”

“Don’t you worry, Mum, he’ll be right as rain in no time,” Tiago says cheerily, smirking when his only answer is an annoyed snort and the dial tone.

Dropping the phone back in its cradle, Tiago sighs, running fingers through his cropped hair. James peers up at him through his silver-golden lashes, pupils swallowing up all but a thin ring of blue. His lips are very red, parted enough that he can see _inside_ , white teeth and pink tongue, and he is so very tempted, but he’d promised Mum to keep his hands to himself - besides, there was a call for prospective double O’s, and he knew M has been considering putting him up as a recruit. So long as he behaves.

The unspoken warning had been clear when she’d introduced the wiry young thing that would be his partner throughout the mission; little Bond was off limits, which was so unfair, but sacrifices and all that. Double O status had long been his goal, and even such a delicious _laucha_ would not tempt him from his path.

Probably.

Clamping down any and all desires, Tiago stands, pushing James up on the bed so as to inspect the damage.

What promises to be a spectacular bruise is already colouring James’ left side, but by the feel of it nothing is broken. Tiago grins crookedly - thank heavens for small mercies. Ceaușescu wouldn’t be leaving for several more hours, so James could have a little time to sleep off the drugs.

Maneuvering James beneath the covers, Tiago can’t resist smoothing back the corn blond hair. James eyes him sleepily, eyes dropping already.

“Boss?” he slurs, hissing out the ‘s’.

“Hmmm?” He plays with with short strands above James’ ear, tracing the air above the fleshy shell.

“ _Craciun fericit_ ,” James says shyly, turning his head to place a soft kiss on Tiago’s palm.

Tiago pauses, startled, but James’s eyes are glazed and they were so very, very far from home.

Giving in to temptation is deliciously sweet, and James’ lips are as soft as they look, parting obligingly under the press of his tongue. Closing his eyes, Tiago memorises this - the soft wet heat of the mouth beneath him, the small noises James makes as he pulls away.

Tiago knows that James won’t remember this, counts on it, and lets himself smile, something sure and true that he’d tucked away when MI6 first came for him.

“Merry Christmas, _laucha_ ,” he murmurs, presses a final kiss to that too sweet mouth, his secret that will be buried in snow and blood before the day is out.

Tiago smiles, leaning back on his hands as the snow softly thumps against the window.

It promises to be an interesting Christmas; revolutions can only end bloody.

He’ll be there to make sure of it.


End file.
